


Indecent Arrangements

by starlight_searches



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Historical Inaccuracy, Kylo Ren is Not Nice, Mutual Pining, Non-Graphic Violence, Pining, Possible Character Death, Regency Romance, Violence, brendol hux is not nice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:53:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27196081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlight_searches/pseuds/starlight_searches
Summary: After receiving a less-than-honest assignment from his father in hopes of increasing his status, Lieutenant Armitage Hux is left feeling trapped, powerless. That is, until he meets you, the young noble he’s been assigned to guard. Now, he must find a way to protect you from his father and his plans, while still getting the thing he wants most.
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 31





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AN: Hey guys, I’ve put this in the warnings, but I wanted to take a second to elaborate: most of my knowledge of the Regency era comes from the 2005 version of Pride and Prejudice, and while I’ve done some research beyond that, there will probably be a few historical inaccuracies over the course of this story—some on purpose, and some not.

The soldier watches with beady eyes as Lieutenant Armitage Hux removes his weapons: first his sword, then his rifle. The man takes them both for inspection, his gaze occasionally flickering back to Hux before dropping them again as he meticulously searches the gleaming blade.

Hux resists the urge to roll his eyes. It seems his father had reached a new level of paranoia—as if Armitage would kill him in his own office, with something as easily traceable as one of his own weapons while a guard stands watch outside. Ridiculous. The man goes in on the rifle next, examining the weapon so closely that Hux can see him go cross-eyed. He can’t imagine why his father would request such an in-depth search, unless the purpose was to annoy his visitors before they even stepped foot into his office. Not entirely impossible; or maybe the young soldier was always this overzealous.

Whatever the motivation, he completes his frivolous search before setting both weapons aside, gesturing for Hux to enter with a nod of his head. With a soft sigh of frustration, Hux steels himself before pushing open the heavy oak door. 

“There you are, boy.” He hears his father’s complaint before he even has a chance to make it through the threshold—unlike his pointless doorman, General Brendol Hux wastes no time, his mouth already turned down at the corners in a characteristic frown. “Get in here; you’re late.”

It’s an elegant space—this office, and the rest of the house his father had _commandeered_ for their stay in Illum. Grey, green light spills in from the window on the far wall, overlooking the manicured grounds and the lake in the distance, covered in fog after the recent rain. He was beginning to understand why his father never stepped foot into the camps, cold and dreary as they were—if he had the opportunity to live in a place like this, he certainly wouldn’t leave.

“Only because of the new … security measures.” Hux knows better than to talk back to his father, but he’s distracted—Brendol already has another guest, and Armitage’s mouth pulls into a deep frown as soon as he sets his eyes on Major Kylo Ren.

He leans over Brendol’s desk without losing any of his imposing height, towering over Brendol where he sits, strands of his loose black hair falling into his face. Ren’s dark eyes move to examine Hux and he offers a faint smirk, the tip of his tongue resting in the corner of his mouth. He lets out the faintest hint of a laugh; seeing Armitage reprimanded is one of the few things that never fails to bring the major joy. It’s odd that he’s here already—Hux has never known Ren to be on time for anything, which means they must have been meeting before this, and his father asked the major to stay. A faint prickle of foreboding travels up his spine as he realizes that, whatever it is his father wants with him, Ren will be involved as well. 

It’s only a moment before Armitage manages to smooth his expression despite the quavering in the pit of his stomach. Nothing good could come of this.

“Stop making excuses and sit down,” Brendol either doesn’t notice the growing tension between his son and Ren or he chooses to ignore it, gesturing for Ren to take a seat on the other side of the handsome mahogany desk, as well. Armitage sits reluctantly, back stiff and straight in the over-plush chair, wishing he had been able to keep his weapons at his side. 

“There’s an important matter I’d like to discuss-” the general clears his throat, his eyes flickering in Armitage’s direction, “-with both of you. An assignment,” and against his better judgement, Hux can feel his dread ebb slightly.

“The Resistance? Has there been a resurgence?” God, it had been so long since he’d seen any kind of action; he misses it immediately. It’s an ache that starts in his hands, yearning for his rifle, but soon it moves to his heart, which pounds with some force now, adrenaline already coursing through his veins, bringing the room into finite detail. He can finally see a life beyond endless nightmare—no more banal parties and awkward afternoons passed in stifling, silent sitting rooms. He’d be back where he belonged. 

“Don’t be daft,” Brendol sneers, shattering Armitage’s elation with those three quick words. “The Resistance is in shambles—His Majesty hardly considers them a threat. Without their precious Skywalker, they’ll be snuffed out by the end of the year.”

Hux sees Ren stiffen out of the corner of his eye, only a slight amount, but he still takes notice. Had Ren heard, as Hux had, of the growing number of reports—wild stories about Resistance brigands ransacking coaches and terrifying travelers? Or was there something else that had brought on his reaction?

“Then what is it?” Ren’s tone is harsher than the situation warrants, but Brendol seems to pay it no mind. Hux knows better; he can see the way Brendol’s jaw ticks, the slight purse of his lips before he forces himself to relax. Scolding Ren would do him no good—he wouldn’t dare reprimand the king’s protege.

“I’ve been in contact with an acquaintance—a nobleman named Arroy Tidaft, currently residing in the king’s court in Coruscant. His niece, a young lady who has fallen under his ward, has been residing here over the winter visiting family, and is set to return back to court for the summer. Lord Tidaft has requested a milita escort to protect the girl and her traveling companions from … highwaymen.”

There’s silence, and Ren and Hux glance at each other out of the corner of their eyes, trying to gauge the other’s reaction. There’s little that the two men have in common, but Hux can clearly see that Ren’s aversion mirrors his own.

“I’m sure I have men who would be more than capable of escorting the girl-” Ren begins cautiously, but Brendol interrupts, holding up his hand to silence him.

“There’s more, "he says, a hard crease developing between his eyebrows as he continues, "Tidaft has no heirs, after the unfortunate death of his only son. As it stands, his niece will inherit all he possesses—or her husband will once she is married. Which means that Tidaft’s land, and his title are, as of yet, unclaimed.”

Armitage stares straight through his father; he had heard enough to guess at Brendol’s plan. His father continues anyway, confirming Armitage’s suspicions. “You’ll need to marry her.”

Armitage curses softly under his breath, unable to completely filter out his thoughts.

There was no time in Armitage’s recent memory when his father had not vied for increased proximity to the crown. Occasionally he might become side-tracked, or temporarily slowed, but this was his true course—and nothing would permanently get in his way. This, however, would be the first time that Armitage would play an integral part. He must have exhausted any other options. 

Ren purses his lips, showing more displeasure than Hux allows himself to exhibit. “Then why am I here?” _So blunt_. Living in the king’s court must have taught Ren many things, but basic manners was not one of them. His stomach rolls again as he thinks of the weeks of travel awaiting him, hours and hours spent in the same carriage as a man with about as much tact as cannon-fire. 

“The man has requested two guards,” Brendol says with unconvincing passivity, before the silence spurs him on and he directs his attention to Armitage, “and someone will need to make sure that you do as you’re told.”

There’s a fierce anger in Ren’s eyes when Hux turns to look at him—like somehow this is all his fault. There’s no way for Hux to communicate his total lack of culpability and his annoyance at the unfair blame with a simple facial expression, so he doesn’t bother, turning back to face his father again. Maybe there was still a chance he could get out of this.

“If what you say is true, then it’s more than likely that the girl already has multiple suitors, if not proposals. Why would her uncle allow her to marry a complete stranger?”

“From what I’ve heard, she has had other offers for her hand, but she refused them,” Brendol scowls, seemingly deep in thought for a moment before he recovers himself, “I’ve been told she’s a rather, ah, _headstrong_ young woman. Tidaft has grown soft in his old age—bends to her will. It’s rather tragic.” 

Armitage doesn’t miss the total lack of sympathy in his father’s voice, the final piece to this nightmarish puzzle, and he’s struck with a sudden clarity. There was nothing Brendol Hux hated more than a headstrong woman—except for his own son. A weight sinks in Armitage’s stomach as he ponders this new thought in his mind, as he comes to accept that this was not just meant to be a blind grab for power, but a punishment as well.

An ache blooms in his chest, resting just behind Hux’s heart in his chest, and it swells—a desire for _something_ that hits him so violently he thinks it might rip him apart from the inside if he doesn’t get it now. It’s followed by the coarsest kind of anger, knowing that he’ll never get the chance to reach for it, whatever it is. He’ll go the rest of his life without even knowing what it is he wants most—swallowed up in the crippling numbness that comes with always doing as you’re told.

Silence follows, and it’s clear that there’s no fight left in Armitage, no way for him to break free of these constraints that Brendol has placed on him. He’ll do as his father asks, or at least try, but he’d make no promise to work at it. If the girl would not have him, then what objection could his father make?

Rain begins to strike against the windows and the office fills with the sound of it. The walk back to the camp will be a miserable one.

“You’ll leave before the end of the week. Send word as soon as she’s accepted your proposal.” Brendol looks back to the papers covering his desk, dismissing both of them with a fly-swatting motion. Armitage doesn’t linger, half-way to the door before Brendol speaks again, “the girl is staying a little ways from here with another relation—an aunt or cousin or whomever. They’d like to meet you both, before you depart. Make an attempt at a good impression.”

Hux hears but doesn’t bother to stop, after all, he’s not the one his father should be worried about making a good impression. As a manifestation of Armitage’s thoughts, Ren scowls at him again, shoving past Hux through the doorway without another word. 

“One more thing, boy,” Armitage stops, turning away from his escape to hear his father’s last words for him before he leaves.

“Do try to look presentable,” Brendol frowns, but Armitage doesn’t see it, and he lets the door slam on his way out.

* * *

You gnaw on your bottom lip, pulling it back and forth over your front teeth with your eyes on the table in front of you. The finger sandwiches, stacked in a delicate little tower, rest there, looking wholly delectable, and your mouth waters. You had hardly picked at your lunch at all—stomach restless with some vague kind of nervousness, but you’re ravenous now. Your fingers curl into fists, the fabric of your dress rustling only slightly from the movement, but your aunt still manages to hear, looking down her nose at you despite the fact, when seated, you’re about the same height.

“It’s rude to begin eating before your guests have even arrived,” she hisses with a tone more appropriate for shaming an animal than her niece.

 _How would they even know?_ , you shoot a glare to the floor but keep your thoughts to yourself, straightening your posture before she has a chance to remind you.

When your uncle told you about his plans to send you away for the winter, you had tried to believe it would be an adventure—a chance to learn about the world outside of court and its limitations, an adventure full of opportunity and promise. But looking back on your time here, you’re not sure if you learned anything at all. Besides, of course, the many words one could use to describe indecent behavior. Your aunt had quite the vocabulary in that regard.

You sigh, low and through your nose so as to not draw her attention, a slight shiver traveling up your spine. It’s always cold in Illum—the kind of cold you can’t warm up from. It seeps in through the cracks in the windows, from underneath doors, and leaves you feeling chilled to your bones, like the damp weather was coming from inside your chest instead of without. The only place you had managed to find any warmth was the bedroom you’d been given for the duration of your stay, and sometimes the library if there was a fire going in the hearth; if only you could curl up on the soft rug by the fireplace and wait out this terrible storm and the rest of your miserable time here. Maybe you could finish another one of the books you had set aside before you had to leave them all behind.

A sudden fainting spell might get you out of this meeting, and the rest of your obligations for the day, if you managed to convince your aunt. Best to wait until you had other witnesses; she’d have a harder time ignoring your condition if there were others around to show concern.

A low rumbling sound, like thunder, rattles in the windows in the sitting room and you turn to look, just barely able to make out the dark smudge of a carriage through the rain-stained glass. You strain, leaning as far over as you can, hoping that you might catch a glimpse of its two passengers, but the rain mars their image and all you manage to see before you’re scolded once again is a bright streak of red against the swirling grey sky.

The door opens, and you hear the sounds of your guests as they move into the entryway, the rush of footsteps as they’re led into the sitting room. Your heart pounds faster in your chest.

“My lady,” the butler enters first, addressing your aunt before introducing your guests, “Major Kylo Ren and Lieutenant Armitage Hux here to see you.” 

You can feel your eyes grow wider as the two men enter, but you mask your shock, standing and dipping into a curtsey. You had never seen soldiers like these before. 

“A pleasure,” your aunt takes both of the men by the hand, and it’s clear that she feels this visit is anything but. You can’t exactly blame her, although you wish she would be less rude about it. 

You had met plenty of militiamen—at parties, and dinners—and, on the whole, found them almost painfully uninteresting. Like sheets of blank parchment, all made to fit into a neat stack, waiting for orders. So obedient. So _boring_. 

The two men in front of you are nothing like the others that you’ve met. The first one takes your hand, the major, and you marvel at the way it’s so easily swallowed by his leather-clad fingers. He’s almost impossibly large, broad shouldered and powerfully built, the muscles of his arms straining against the fabric of his uniform. His hair is long and dark but left loose, pooling around his shoulders in damp clumps from the rain, and his face is a study in rough-hewn features, all fighting for attention, a harsh kind of handsome that frightens as much as it intrigues. 

You meet his eyes with a tentative smile but the frown doesn’t leave his face, and his eyes flash with something like hatred before you look away again, your heart beating more rapidly in your chest. 

“A pleasure,” you mumble in his direction, and he turns to sit down, looking no less large or intimidating as he lounges in his seat. A faint prickle crawls over the back of your neck, a moment of premonition, a sudden clarity. You don’t think you’ll get along well with Major Kylo Ren.

The other man steps forward, and you’re once again taken off-guard.

They’re polar opposites—light and dark. Where Ren is large and domineering, the lieutenant is slight, his features soft and refined in comparison to Ren’s coarse ones. A smattering of freckles covers his nose and dot his hairline, the shock of bright red hair neat and slicked back, away from his face. It’s a handsome face, made for portraits and statues. A face you’d like to examine, given the chance. 

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he says, his voice low and soft, like the crackling of a fire, and you nod absentmindedly, feeling warmer already. You’re weak at the knees, it seems, and for a moment you wonder how much effort you’ll truly need to put into that fainting spell you had planned. 

“Please, have a seat,” your aunt ushers the man away from you, and you stumble back towards the other couch, your eyes never leaving him. 

“Thank you, for meeting with us today,” your aunt begins with a slight cough, “to discuss my niece’s travel plans as she returns to court.” She rests a hand on your knee when she mentions you, but her fingers grip you with deceptive strength, the message clear. _Get a hold of yourself._ So she’s noticed your surprise, and you’re sure that the men have too. They must find you terribly rude.

“Yes, thank you,” you follow her lead, but your voice is a little too high, strained and tense. You clear your throat quietly, trying to ease the tightness that’s got a hold on your throat with little success. Her fingers press harder into your leg.

“Please, eat,” she gestures towards the spread on the low table, and your eyes turn back to the sandwiches, your stomach growling quietly. You may have been distracted momentarily, but your hunger is more single-minded than you’ll ever manage to be. Still, you wait for one of them to reach for anything. _Guests must eat first_. The major waves his hand as a refusal of the food, and you want to cry out. There’s too much that’s been prepared, especially considering that your aunt won’t eat any of it. She’ll probably have it thrown away after this is all over, just to flaunt that she can, and the thought makes you want to cry. Your eyes fall to the other man. He’s your only hope.

His gaze meets yours over the plate of sandwiches, and he reaches out with one hesitant hand, plucking one off the top of the little stack. You practically lunge for the plate once he’s made contact, grabbing for the food before he has a chance to lean back. 

He looks at you, a little sheepish, like he’s the one that’s behaving badly, and you offer him a guilty smile of your own to let him know that’s not the case. His eyes are green. Your aunt clears her throat again.

“Tea will be ready in a moment,” she says it like an admonition, and you sit back, thoroughly chastised, but the lieutenant pops the little sandwich between his pink lips, and you have to hold back your smile.

You nibble at your own little snack, in an attempt to be dainty, but it’s difficult to restrain yourself. The bread is soft and pillowy, the cream cheese cool and salty against your tongue. Your stomach rejoices. Finally.

“The general has been in contact with your brother, I believe,” Major Ren says, leaning forward with his forearms resting on his knees, his full attention on your aunt. He wants this meeting over with as soon as possible. You can appreciate him in that regard.

“Yes, Lord Tidaft was pleased to hear that General Hux had received his message,” she turns back to the Lieutenant, “you’re his son, I presume?”

Lieutenant Hux nods, and she sniffs—something about that has upset her. You study him again, the faintest pink of a blush blossoming against the pale skin of his cheeks. Interesting.

“We were told that you’d like to speak about travel arrangements,” Ren pulls your aunt’s attention again, and she tries to wither him with a glare. He’s unwilling to be sidetracked by her attempts at socializing, and once again you’re grateful. Maybe you had misjudged him in the beginning.

“Yes, of course,” she says, finally giving in, and you take advantage of the fact that her anger is currently directed at someone else, grabbing another sandwich before she can stop you. “Lord Tidaft’s carriage will arrive in about three days, we’ll send word as soon as it’s here. You’ll leave the day after. The journey should take a little over a week-”

“It’s only four days to court, with a fast enough carriage.” Ren’s interruption throws your aunt—for a moment she’s rendered speechless, a small miracle. 

She collects herself with a small shake, her features hardening with determination. It’s clear that now she, too, wishes this meeting to be over as quickly as possible, thank god. “There will be stops along the way—a few acquaintances of ours have agreed to give you room and board as you make your way to court.”

“How very thoughtful.” It’s the lieutenant who speaks this time, and while you don’t think he means it as a joke, you find yourself stifling a laugh anyway, masking the sound with a slight cough. Your aunt glares at him. 

“One of our maids, Tabitia, will travel with you, for propriety’s sake.” And just like that, the laughter is gone, a scowl taking over your face. There is no love between you and Tabitia. 

“If that’s all then,” Major Ren prepares to stand, but your aunt raises a hand to stop him. 

“Be a dear and go check on the tea, please,” she’s talking to you directly now, her voice deceptively casual but you notice the tightness in her expression. There’s something she doesn’t want you to hear.

You stand, offering a small curtsy to the two men before you depart, closing the doors to the sitting room behind you. Your heart beats louder, and for a moment you’re worried that they somehow might be able hear it as you crouch low to the ground, pressing your ear to the gap in the doors. It’s not like your aunt to keep secrets.

“There’s something else I’d like to mention, something rather unsavory that we’d prefer to keep from my niece at all costs,” your aunt’s voice is still clear, although she does speak a bit lower, and you cover your mouth and nose with your hand, hoping to silence the sound of your own breathing. A soft rustling makes its way to your ears, the sound of parchment changing hands and you wait, listening intently. 

“You’ve received more like this?” It’s the major talking, and he sounds almost _disturbed_. You can’t help but be frightened. What could possibly unsettle a man like him?

“Yes, they’ve been rather … persistent. Her uncle is concerned, as I am, that the Resistance might act on these threats if at any time she’s left unguarded.”

 _The Resistance_. You lose your balance, swaying precariously in your crouched stance and you lean more heavily against the door in an attempt to catch yourself, cursing the way it creaks. You still every muscle, praying that none of them will be prompted to check on the source of the noise. It’s only after a few breathless moments that you allow yourself to relax and ponder the information you had just learned. The Resistance had made threats of some kind against you—but what had they been sending? And how had you not known? 

What could they possibly want with _you_?

“We’ll watch closely for any sign of an attack,” the lieutenant’s voice breaks through the walls of your panic, and you focus in on the conversation again, letting the firm timbre of his voice wash away some of your panic, “we’ll keep her safe.” He sounds confident in his abilities. Maybe you won’t have to worry.

The room falls silent, and you take that as your cue, standing to your full height taking a few steps in place to alert them of your presence before opening the door.

“The tea will be ready in a moment.” Three sets of eyes examine you, and you mask your latent fears, hiding everything you had just learned deep in your chest. A peculiar wave of calm floods over you for a moment, bolstering your lie.

“No need now, dear, the two gentlemen were just leaving,” your aunt doesn’t bother to pretend that she hadn’t sent you on a frivolous errand, and the men stand to leave.

“Wait,” you’ve said something before you can stop yourself, and all eyes are on you again, and it makes you feel small. Your eyes flit to the lieutenant, find his green eyes settled on you, “there will be a ball here tonight, in my honor,” you keep your eyes on him while you speak, occasionally flitting to the others, ignoring the way your aunt glares. “It’s sort of a going away party. We would be delighted if you would attend,” you leave off there, letting the silence fill in the words that you can’t say. You recognize his kindness. You’d like to see him again. 

“I’m sure that they have plenty of-” 

“We’d be honored,” the lieutenant interrupts your aunt’s protestations, much to her chagrin, but you smile watching him as he goes. You can’t help but wonder if there’s still time for adventure before your journey ends.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Armitage Hux x F! Reader Regency AU
> 
> Hello friends! Wishing a Merry Christmas to those who celebrate; I hope you’re all having a wonderful time as we close out this crazy and stressful year! 
> 
> Series warnings: minor language, violence, plotting, historical inaccuracies, major-character death.
> 
> Let me know what you think! Feedback is always appreciated!

Hux examines the view in the cracked glass of the mirror, turning back and forth, trying to scrutinize his uniform from every angle. The surface is distorted and cloudy, and he squints, unable to determine whether or not he’s truly presentable, and a soft huff escapes his parted lips, further obscuring his image in the glass. There’s a flickering set of nerves, like a candle flame, that had settled into his stomach from the moment he left your residence, and he had not yet found a way to extinguish it. It’s making him . . . _tense_ , his thoughts buzzing from place to place, never landing on anything long enough to to give him the relief he desperately needs.

An echoey splash of footsteps sounds outside the tent, distracting him from his irritability, but only for a moment. Hux braces himself as the flap parts and Major Ren peers in.

“The carriage is here,” he says flatly, looking from Hux to the mirror before leveling him with a smirk. “You’re lady awaits.”

“Piss off,” Hux rarely resorts to such vulgar language—a unique trait amongst militiamen—but Ren doesn’t respond to anything else. He hardly responds to this. 

Ren smiles outright, baring his teeth, and Hux turns back to the mirror, looking but not seeing his reflection in the glass.

"Such language," the major finds Hux's eyes in the mirror's reflection, looming over him. There's malice in his gaze—a cruel kind of delight at getting on Armitage's nerves. A cold draft creeps in through the break in the tent flaps and Armitage shudders against his will.

"Perhaps this headstrong girl will cure you of that," Ren says, his dark eyes a mystery, balancing on the edge between amusement and spite. He's quiet for a moment too long—uncharacteristically contemplative—and Hux doesn't dare move until Ren breaks his silence with a sharp breath, coming back to himself. "I've decided that you can have her; I won't get in your way."

Hux keeps his thoughts to himself, masking his emotions with concerted effort. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that Ren would choose to frame his decision not to interfere with the General's plan as an act of generosity, but it irks him, nevertheless. Ren's eyes narrow as he waits for Hux to express his gratitude, but he only matches his reflected glare.

The silence stretches on until it doesn't; Ren turns to leave. Hux doesn't allow himself to celebrate—he knows this wasn't a victory, but the coil holding the tension in his shoulders loosens minutely. 

The major stops at the threshold, flashing another smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Unless, of course, the girl prefers me over you. I can't be blamed for that." The tent flap closes with a snap, and Hux is left alone.

Minutes pass before Hux feels rational again, before the sound of his breathing stops echoing so loudly in his ears. And still, he's fuming.

He has no claim over you—he knows that. He doesn’t want one. He hardly knows the first thing about you, beyond your eagerness to eat finger sandwiches, and the gentle curvature of your lips when you're trying not to smile. Regardless, he doesn't want to do what his father has asked of him. He has no interest in forcing you to be a part of this absurd power grab.

But the nerve of that bastard! How dare Ren presume to have your affections before he's spoken a word to you?

There's a gnawing sensation at the base of Armitage's neck that he can't ignore, a feeling that another person more superstitious than he might call a premonition. As much as he'd like to believe that you would be able to see through whatever charming facade Ren tried to put on, he knows that the opposite is a distinct possibility.

Plenty of women admired the major. He was intimidating, but graceful. _Mysterious_. He was capable of being charming if he wanted to be, and it seems that he would want to be, if it meant he could hurt Armitage in the process.

A series of images flash through Hux's memory—flubbed conversations and silent, stilted dances with partners who made no attempt to hide that they'd rather be with someone else. A parade of his failures marching steadily past the backs of his eyelids.

He leans forward, pressing his forehead against the cool surface of the mirror, wishing foolishly that it might give way under the pressure and he could slip away from this mess. As soon as he’s entertained the thought, he dismisses it, straightening to his full height with a resolute stare. There's no time to wallow like this. He'll be late to your party.

The carriage ride is bumpy—and silent—except for the patter of icy sleet against the windows. Ren makes no attempt at conversation, but Hux can't miss the aura of superiority he wears. He knows that his barbed remarks struck true.

As soon as the house is within view, though, they're almost forgotten.

It had been a gloomy and unwelcoming place the last time he had been there—colder on the inside than without—but it seems to have transformed in the short time they’ve been away. Hux stares, wide-eyed, as he admires the structure, noting the way the windows blaze with light. There are carriages lining the road on the way to the door, a few cheerful party-goers shielding themselves from the rain as they make their way to the entrance. Their laughter travels through the air—crisp and bright. A soft, winged flutter beats against his heart. Maybe this time, things could be different.

The feeling lingers, even through the rain, and the warmth of the air stings his chilled cheeks as they pass through the threshold into the waiting crowd.

It’s just as invigorating within as without; Hux peers through the whorl of bodies, into the ballroom. He’s caught a glimpse of you, he thinks, a trace of your hair, a flash of white lace. The crowd shifts again, hiding you from sight and he cranes his neck as subtly as he can without pulling Ren’s attention. 

He sees you—this time he’s sure of it. It’s your eyes he’s managed to find now, watching him even from this distance; maybe he’s imagining things, but there seems to be a slight crinkling at their corners, a soft expression of joy. He could be mistaken, but he thinks you might be smiling.

The view is blocked again, however, this time by your aunt, and she wears a very decided frown. 

“Welcome, officers,” she makes no effort to disguise the way she looks down her nose at both him and Ren—quite the feat considering they both tower over her, “we’re very glad that you could make it.”

“Thank you for the invitation,” Hux responds, knowing Ren will put no effort into pleasantries. 

“Do enjoy yourselves,” she says, but she’s gone before her remark is finished. He hardly has time to react to her absence before Ren forces his way into the crowd. 

“Where are you going?” He feels foolish, chasing after Ren like this, but the alternative seems much worse.

There’s no sympathy in Ren’s eyes as he brushes Hux away, “I’m going to do as the lady suggested: enjoy myself. Try not to get in my way.”

And then he’s gone.

Hux fumbles, left alone in the vibrant crowd—stranded on his own amidst hundreds of strangers. 

The crowd swirls around him, full of strange and unwelcoming faces. In a room with hundreds of people, there are only three he knows, and two have just abandoned him. There’s no reason to put it off any longer. He might as well find the third. 

Hux gathers little notice as he moves further into the house, past the entryway and into the ballroom. It’s a little early for dancing still, but a few groups have gathered, speaking amiably to each other, and it’s less crowded here. A little easier to breathe. 

You’re across the room from him, speaking with a few other ladies, laughing amiably as you sip from a glass of wine. Hux bolsters himself; you’ve already met, after all, so this should be rather simple. And maybe there were others here whom you could introduce him to, as well. He wouldn’t have to spend his entire time here on his own. 

Hux lingers on the edge of the room, still, perched on the precipice of action. Then you notice him, glancing over your shoulder with a soft smile, and Hux is moving without thinking, pulled in your direction. 

His movements feel too leisurely, and still too awkward, his approach is happening too slowly and in no time at all. He slows, just as he reaches you, standing behind you as your friends move on to share their enjoyment with the other attendees. It seems like the perfect moment, truly kismet. Unfortunately, it’s not.

He was wrong before—you hadn’t seen him approach. It’s clear to him now how blinded he was to that fact as you turn, stumbling when your elbow catches him in the center of his chest. The glass in your hand slips slightly, the wine circling the edges of its container, dangerously close to falling and Hux wills it to stay in your hands. It doesn’t—as if the vessel could somehow know his thoughts and hold such ill will against him that it might do the exact opposite of his wishes. The stem falls from between your gloved fingers, just enough for it to spill its crimson contents down the front of your gown. He watches in horror, utterly powerless as the liquid seeps into the fabric, staining the white material red like blood. While he’s sure his face is a mask of horror, you don’t seem to notice how perfectly he’s managed to ruin everything.

“It’s you,” somehow, your words cut through the screaming panic in his mind, the desperate bargaining with time as he begs for the opportunity to try those last few moments just once more, certain he could get it right if he was given one more chance. But time pushes on, relentless—marked by the ever spreading stain.

“I’m terribly, ah, incredibly sorr-” Hux needs to apologize, but he can’t form the words. This party, it’s a waking nightmare. Worse than he could ever have imagined. How could he survive the coming journey after a moment like this?

You settle a hand on his arm, interrupting his thoughts, and it’s only then that he gets a complete look at your face. He can scarcely believe it; there’s not a hint of anger in your expression, and your fingers trace a calming pattern over the fabric of his uniform, bringing his attention to you. 

“I won’t hear a word of it,” you say, moving towards him—a little too close to be considered appropriate—so that he can hear your whispered words, “believe it or not, you’ve actually done me a favor, lieutenant.”

“I beg your pardon?” Hux flounders, overcome by the abundance of information he’s trying to process—whatever it is you’re trying to communicate, the reaction, or lack thereof from the crowd, the feeling his uniform press more firmly against his skin in response to your touch. You seem to recognize this, your eyes locked on him, waiting for the moment he’s recovered before you continue speaking with that same gentle whisper. 

“May I tell you a secret, lieutenant?” 

“I- yes.”

“The truth is, while it is a lovely dress, the lace is terribly uncomfortable and so I try to avoid wearing it. Unfortunately, my aunt believes it to be my favorite, and has insisted that I wear so often that now I can hardly stand it. And I’m hoping-“ you peer over his shoulder, checking for any curious eyes, but it’s like magic, the way you’ve managed to avoid everyone’s gaze for this small moment, trapped together in some private space that none of them are invited to join, “that if I avoid Tabitia’s notice for just a little longer, then you’ll have solved my problem. So truly, I’m in your debt.” You smile at him again. He can feel the warmth of your fingers through the material of your glove.

And then it’s ripped away. There’s a woman there, by his side— _how had he not noticed her before?_ —and she’s gripping your arm like a vise, ripping you from him with a stern shake. 

“Foolish girl,” she scolds, “look at this! And such a lovely dress, too, but I’ll never get the stain out.” The woman, Tabitia, fusses you about, turning you this way and that, her prodding drawing more attention than the initial incident. 

“I’m sorry, Tabitia, it was a mistake. My hand slipped,” you spare Armitage one more glance before you’re pulled away by Tabitia’s fierce hand. Hux watches as you’re drawn through the crowd, holding your stare as long as he can manage. Part of him wonders if you’re always in this much trouble. Another part of him wonders why he doesn’t seem to mind.

* * *

The stairs creak under your feet, and you toe the steps to find them in the shifting darkness. Tabitia holds the candle in front of herself only as she leads the way down the stairs, which leaves you trying to find the way with the scattering slivers of light. She had taken plenty of her aggression out on you before, stripping the ruined gown from your body with rough hands, but apparently her anger is not yet appeased. Maybe that’s for the best; her mood isn’t going to change any time soon, considering what you have planned. 

You hope the gasp you let out doesn't sound too rehearsed, although it certainly gets her attention. The stairs creak under her feet as she turns, throwing the candlelight into your eyes, leveling you with a glare. You’ll have to be extra careful—Tabitia is not above accusing you of subterfuge, even when you're guiltless.

"Goodness child, what's happened now?"

"I- I forgot my gloves," you say, hoping to look appropriately repentant under her scrutiny. You raise your bare hands as evidence in response to her silence, killing any accusations on her parted lips.

Tabitia sighs harshly, her eyes flashing up the darkened stairway, and you can see her reluctance at the thought of climbing up all those stairs again. She leans more heavily on the banister, shifting her weight off of her bad knee; you know it must be aching, the way it does when it rains. Which, here on Illum, is all the time.

"I'll just go get them," you say, letting the words come out rushed and unrehearsed, "I'll do it quickly."

"Foolish girl," Tabitha says the title like a curse even as she presses the candlestick into your waiting palm. "Quick as you can; don't dawdle. You have guests waiting for you."

You hold the candle high as she makes her way down the last of the stairs. Her footsteps quicken once she's on flat ground and you listen closely, waiting for the moment she'll disappear around the corner.

You climb as silently as you can manage, pulling your skirt out of the way with your empty hand as you try your best to avoid the noisier steps so that no one will hear your urgency. You haven’t given yourself much time.

Your aunt's room is at the end of the hall. You'll search there first.

Your heartbeat echoes all the way to your fingertips as you stare down the darkened door, the candlelight stopping a few feet from its threshold, as if it weren't allowed in this part of the house either. You rid yourself of those worries with a little shake—there was no turning back now. Especially after you ruined one of your favorite dresses.

The prick of guilt distracts you from your worry as you turn the handle, pushing the door open with bated breath. You hadn't lied to the lieutenant—at least, not completely. He _had_ done you a favor, even if it wasn't the favor he believed it to be. You had always needed an excuse to leave the party, and the other mis-truths were for his benefit only. And, given the way he flushed after the incident, and the subsequent panic, the little white lie was probably good for his health. You couldn’t bear it to see him in so much anguish on your account. It was only a dress.

The windows are open in your aunt's room, but the moon offers little light on a cloudy night like tonight, and your candle burns low, the flame giving a feeble brightness to search by. You ignore the shiver that passes through you—you don't have time to be cold. You need to find that letter.

The nightstand is the first place you check; setting down the candle first, you begin to rifle through your aunt's belongings as quickly as you can manage, letting the collected correspondence and other trinkets fall quickly from your fingers and back into place after each examination.

You check the dresser next, fishing through the drawers, careful not to disturb the contents so much that your aunt might notice. But still, nothing. Nothing in her vanity, nothing in the closet. No sign of the letter anywhere.

You resist the urge to pound your fist against the wall, still trying your best to keep quiet, satisfying your frustration with a soft huff instead. Where was that damn letter?

Your confidence wanes like the light of the candle flame as it begins to flicker in the darkness. You don't even know what the letters look like, let alone where your aunt may have hidden them. Maybe she keeps them on her person. Or maybe she tossed them all into the fire. Your shoulders slump with the weight of your failure. How are you supposed to find something when you don't even know what you're looking for?

There's a soft creak in the wood outside the doorway, a quiet but unmistakable footstep, and you freeze—as if that would stop your aunt or Tabitia from reigning holy terror on you for sneaking where you don't belong. You turn to face the room's entrance without daring to take a breath, helpless to do anything but watch as a gloved hand appears at the door, followed soon after by an arm, and then a neat patch of red hair, shocking even in the dwindling candlelight.

His eyes meet yours; a shiver runs through you, before you can manage to stop it. You clamp your jaw more tightly in response, resisting the urge to roll your eyes at your own foolishness. It's only the lieutenant.

"I'm terribly sorry to have frightened you," he says politely as his eyes flicker from yours to the candle flame, and then the surrounding area. His gaze is quick and precise—as clean as the ocean-green of his eyes—it’s clear from his quick assessment that he's not the kind of man to miss much, "but I noticed you hadn't returned to the party and I, ah-" he pauses, clearly thinking more than he's willing to let on," I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

"Oh, yes. I was just-" your examination of the room is not nearly as clean as the lieutenant's, but you find your excuse quickly enough, reaching for a spare pair of gloves left on your aunt's dressing table, "I was looking for a pair of gloves to borrow, since I misplaced mine." You wave the pair lamely in your hand, a fitting eulogy for your pathetic tale.

"Of course," the lieutenant makes no comment on the frail corpse of your lie, moving past the conversation with a charitable grace, "shall we return to the party?"

"Oh yes, of course," he takes the candle from you, allowing you a moment to put on your new gloves before you step back into the darkened hallway. 

It’s strange, now that you think about it—that the lieutenant is here with you, in this private area of the house, in the dark. It would seem a little . . . untoward, to any prying eye. You hardly know this man at all, and yet it seemed the most natural thing for him to be the one who found you. You stifle a small smile; no doubt the lieutenant already thought of the impropriety of the moment. He must have had good reason to go and check on you.

And then the thought strikes you, like cold water poured over your head. He was worried for your safety. _Here._ In this very house. Your head grows fuzzy; you’re having trouble breathing.

“Are you alright?” He notices the subtle change, catching you by the elbow with his free hand. Concern lines dot his brow, and you can’t help the way you feel when you look in his eyes. You trust him. 

"Lieutenant?" Sounds of the party below waft up the empty stairwell, but it all feels miles away now, so far beyond your realm of concern. You have questions—about the Resistance, the king, your place in this conflict—and there’s a man standing in front of you who might have all the answers. 

“Yes?” 

So many things to say, and no way to say them—your thoughts stay formless, hindered from existence by some block in your mind. You have no idea where to start. You search the hallway with your eyes, hoping the questions that you seek might be written in some forgotten corner or left scribbled on the wall. That’s when you notice the door.

You’ve passed by the door of your uncle’s office every day of your stay here at Illum, and you’ve never given it much thought. He’s rarely at home—almost always traveling on business, and so for most of your stay, it has been left unoccupied. Your aunt keeps the door locked, regardless; you checked once during your first week here, before immediately losing interest. You have no desire to sort through business ledgers.

A thousand times past that door, never wondering what secrets it could hold, and now for the first time it catches your notice. That’s because, for the first time, it’s left unlocked. The door’s ajar.

“Is something wrong?” You hardly hear the lieutenant now, pushing past him, following whatever calls to you just beyond the door. The handle is cold to the touch, but the door swings open with the gentlest pressure, inviting you in.

“I really think we should return to the party,” the lieutenant says, but despite his hesitation, he follows you, shifting nervously with his eyes on the door, “I’m sure your aunt will be looking for you.” Still, he keeps the candle held high for you, and you squint in the dim light. There’s nothing special about the office, nothing strange, but you know it immediately. The letter is here—you can feel it in your bones.

“In a moment, Lieutenant. There’s something I want to look at first,” your feet pad quietly over the carpet as soon as you spot your target—the large desk near the window. It’s surface is fairly clean, but the front boasts three separate drawers. You’ll check these first.

The first drawer yields no results, full of broken quills and pots of ink. The second is the same—some spare pieces of parchment. Your eyes fall to the third drawer, the largest of the three, square in the middle of the desk. 

Your fingers tremble as you reach for it, and you turn to the lieutenant without thinking. It seems he’s holding his breath, but he gives you a subtle nod, as if he understands the significance of this moment. You grab the handle in your fingers, ignoring the way the cold of the metal stings your skin before giving it a sharp tug. The drawer stays where it is. This one’s locked.

A frustrated sigh surges from your lungs. You’re so close, you _know_ you’re close. And now this. 

Before you have a chance to fully simmer in your anger, the lieutenant is at your side, covering your hand with his own. “Allow me,” he says gently, passing the candle into your palm.

“It’s locked,” you explain, waiting for him to give the drawer his own tug, as if there was some innate masculine power in opening drawers that you don’t possess. You’re surprised when he kneels instead, grabbing a letter opener from where it rests on the desk.

“I think I can help with that.” He presses the tip of the letter opener into the keyhole, moving it gently in all directions before you hear a soft click.

He moves out of the way as soon as it’s done, and not a moment too quickly—you pounce on the drawer, pulling it open with eager hands.

The sight of it stops you dead, a mangled cry failing to escape as you choke back the sound. The lieutenant offers a soft curse in response as you both stare, mouths agape at the sight of hundreds of letters, stark like bones in the dim light. You reach for one, hardly daring to touch them but unable to resist the urge. You pluck one up, bringing it close to your face, hoping that your eyes might be playing tricks on you, but there’s no such luck. This letter, like every other letter in the drawer, is addressed to you.

“Mother of God,” you slide the drawer closed again, unable to cope with the wellspring of emotions that bubble up into your chest, the first and strongest of them blacking out the beat of your heart and threatening to spill from your eyes. It’s fear, pulling you away from everything else, deeper and deeper into its void.

“Perhaps you should sit down,” once again the lieutenant is there for you, guiding you gently into your uncle’s office chair, pulling the letter from your clenched hands.

It’s more serious than you ever could have imagined. Whatever it is The Resistance wants with you, they’re desperate—the kind of desperation that can only breed violence. And you had no idea. So many secrets kept from you with so many lies. You wonder if you’ll ever be able to get ahead of them.

“Lieutenant?” He looks up from the letter when you call for him, the faint frown he wears disappearing when he sees you. It’s becoming increasingly apparent to you that you’ve been at war for longer than you know, and the number of allies you have is dwindling by the minute. You need someone who will be on your side.

"What do you know about the Resistance?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Lemme know what you think!


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